


Parasites

by wubbabub



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Blood and Gore, Choking, M/M, Parasites, Pills, Surgery, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 13:06:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4667648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wubbabub/pseuds/wubbabub
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morty is infested with internal alien parasites after some horrible adventure, and Rick must pick them out by hand, carefully.  It's... intimate?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parasites

**Author's Note:**

> There's no outright Rick/Morty, but the implication is there, so it's tagged. This was written in June 2014, but I hope someone here finds it and likes it like its new :p  
> if you like surgery and the intimacy of someone being literally inside someone else, then you may like this.

The portal opens out a wall in the garage, safe home, but not ok. Morty screams and screams, grabs his gut and feels wriggling under his skin. Rick is bolting around the room, and Morty thinks this must be serious because Rick isn’t even taking a minute to slap him and tell him to shut up, so he can’t calm down. He’s choking out swears and ‘oh god’s and heaving up until something (he knows what it is) lodges in his throat and he can’t breathe, can’t scream.

Rick perks at the silence, runs, trips over something, gets back up, races back with twice the speed and Morty grabs a hold of him as soon as he’s in reach, pointing to his throat as if it’s not already obvious. Rick says nothing but grabs him roughly by the throat, squeezing tight (he’d choke if he wasn’t already), then shoves fingers into his mouth, saying only “don’t you bite me.”

Predicting the future, Morty’s steels his teeth against all impulse. Rick’s skin is scratchy and bitter against his tongue, a horrible godsend; he works the creature up to the top of Morty’s throat with the hand squeezing around his neck, until his fingers can pinch around it at the back of his throat and drag it out. Its little claws pop out with much resistance and Morty whimpers, which is great to hear because it’s out, he can start screaming again, after he’s finished breathing. He wants to collapse onto the floor, sick and overwhelmed, but Rick grabs him by the elbow and swings him towards the workbench. No time to be dramatic.

Morty’s lightheaded, trying to catch his lungs back up as he feels things grip and clutch around them, praying they don’t puncture anything. There’s a loud clatter and shattering as Rick sweeps his arm across the workbench to clear it; he urgently yanks Morty into the side of it, which he understands means get on it, which he does even if tensing his muscles to get up means squeezing around the bodies inside of him, which bite in protest (he whimpers again). 

Rick shoves his flask into Morty’s chest and says “Drink”. Morty obeys without question like his life depends on it (he’s sure it does). It’s disgusting and he nearly stops to collect himself but forces it down without pause; it burns and stings his throat, agitates the little scrapes the stubborn parasite left. He starts crying again, partially in pain but also in gratitude. He can’t even be angry at Rick for inadvertently causing this to happen, can only be thankful, so so so thankful that his grandpa is quick and smart enough to get him out of it.

“Th-th” Morty’s voice is hoarse and strained, speaking hurts. “This w—w-ww-will kill them right?”

Rick ignores that to continue hurriedly rummaging for godknows what, cursing. Morty listens to clinking, popping, then a fresh glass bottle is shoved into his hands. Rick doesn’t say it this time but Morty can understand, swallows thickly and tilts it back. Dizziness from the flask begins to set in, his body swaying. He goes to set the emptied flask down, drops it over the side; they both flinch at the noise.

Rick’s elbow comes to shove him roughly down against the bench without warning, makes Morty choke on the alcohol, coughing a fit. Rick’s lifting his shirt up and has one elbow pressing into his chest with the other pressing into his groin, but Morty’s obedient under him and focuses on the bottle which he’s sure will save his life; trying to figure out how to drink while laying down, whiskey spilling out the corners of his mouth and some out his nose from when he’d choked. Everything stings and burns but it’s a welcome distraction from the squirming and stretching happening inside of him, which he only just now realizes, hazy, has become significantly less urgent-seeming. Rather than frenzied clawing inside, he feels faint scratching.

“That should slow them down,” Rick finally says. Morty doesn’t look, tonguing the mouth of the now-empty bottle, distracted. “Not out of the w-woods yet, yet Morty, I need you to be– stay calm, okay? Can you do that Morty? You gonna be good? I-I’m gonna need—need you to stay calm,” Morty nods numbly, head fizzy.

Something cold presses just under his ribs, followed by a sharp sting that makes him flinch and cough. He feels wet sliding down his abdomen and pooling onto the table. Rick’s voice mumbles something he doesn’t hear and he looks down to see himself split open half-way to his belly button.

Morty chokes out something desperate that was meant to be ‘Rick’ and goes to sit up, only to be roughly shoved back down. He watches rivets of blood come pouring out as he hyperventilates, the skin spreads further as his ribs shake and he loses it, loses every ounce of calm he’d just gathered, Rick is cutting him open, is he going to—is he going to pull them OUT? Does he have some—tongs or something? But they’re so–in there—

Morty begins and flubs at least ten attempts at a sentence, hands switching from clasping around his mouth to his covering eyes to grabbing his head, unable to think clearly with so much alcohol in him but knowing how to panic.

Rick cranes himself as far as he can while still keeping his elbow firmly dug into Morty’s chest, there’s rattling and then shuffling along the desk, then he switches gears and fingers through his labcoat. Morty steals himself a long enough glance to make out an orange bottle in Rick’s (gloved? When did he put those on–) hand, he opens it above him and as soon as that much registers, a few white capsules are pushed between his lips and Rick’s hand firmly plants onto his mouth.

“I need-” Rick swallows a burp and enunciates slow, patience so thin; Morty feels the hand shaking against his mouth. “-you to calm DOWN, Morty. It’s gonna be F-FINE, it’s gonna be fine, you just gotta lay down, ok? You-you gotta trust me.” Morty can’t do anything but swallow and nod, Rick looks like he’s waiting for more so he nods more eagerly until the hand finally pries away.

The stinging returns where it left off, he’s too aware to ignore it now, alcohol barely doing anything but making him nauseous. He prays to God whatever Rick gave him is meant to knock him unconscious because he can’t handle this. There’s a pause, he breathes out and feels another slice, just above his belly-button. He shivers, and then feels Rick’s hand stroking his leg, which is more comforting than he would expect it to be, and surprising, for what it is. Probably Rick being ‘nice’ should be more reason to panic, because when else is he gentle? (He thinks that, but doesn’t feel terribly worried, just knows he should be).

His head feels light, the unfinished ceiling is a twisting maze above him for his eyes to wander through, the hand keeps petting. Something indecipherable is whispered gruffly above him, he nods in agreement of nothing he understands.

He feels pulling, aching, the stinging shifts to feel distant now, but still there. There’s a tip-tip-tip noise (blood dripping to the garage floor from the table) that he follows with a sway of his left foot. His breath feels deeper than usual, like he can reach further into his lungs than ever before. There’s more aching, stretching in his abdomen. He looks down to see Rick’s sleeves rolled up, knuckles-deep into him, fingers vanishing into red. Instead of anything rational, Morty wonders how much sensation he’s meant to even distinguish; he can feel organs press against the sides of his body but can’t say he registers anything in the parts themselves. He goes to prop himself on his elbows, thinking he wants a better look, but Rick’s persistent elbow nudges him back down and he says something that Morty can’t understand. Did he forget English? He’s thinking in English. Rick sounds far away.

He feels a pinch inside and flinches, then hears shushing, which he obeys on instinct, though his breath comes out with a little bit of voice attached at the ends. He feels tugging inside and stares at the ceiling, watches a fly settle onto a beam. He can’t hear Rick beyond a muffle yet he can hear the fly buzzing.

There’s a difference between Rick and the bugs he can feel. Rick’s fingers slide through him easily, slick, aided by latex gloves; the bugs are harsh, grabbing with hooks on their legs, pushing through panicked and erratic. Rick moves thoughtfully, measured, occasionally jerks to catch something but he’s not rough, he’s careful. Morty keeps easy track of which movements are Rick’s, which are the bug’s. It preoccupies him. Every rough scuttle is trailed after by smooth pressing through its path, soothing like he’d never expect.

Rick is making noises regularly; none of them register except the very familiar “Morty”. It comes again and again, and occasionally they meet eyes, every time Morty nods because while he can think in something like English he can’t make anything solid enough to form words. Rick’s looking at him, standing up now, leaned over him, his mouth his moving, Morty watches how his lips twitch when he knows he’s stuttering on a word, and how his throat shakes when he burps. Morty, M-Morty, Morty. Rick says his name a lot. Morty nods again and again, until Rick finally nods in return. He watches the gloves get peeled off and thrown to the floor.

Rick’s hands are still relatively smooth inside of him, even without latex, Morty wonders if his blood will stick under Rick’s fingernails. He doesn’t wonder why Rick took the gloves off.

He feels them urging gently under his ribs and gasps, jumps a bit, heart finally shifts pace faster for the first time since the pills kicked in. Rick’s still hovering above, says “You’re ok, Morty,” in the softest tone he’s ever heard, probably just in the context of Rick but right now, he thinks, in general. The softest thing he’s ever heard in the entire world. His chest calms. He whimpers to see what Rick will do.

“I-It’s ok, you’re OK, just a few more, Morty. Breathe in real de-deep for me, ok?” He obliges, open-mouthed, holds it, feels Rick slide under, it’s distant, it doesn’t feel like it’s inside of him. Rick curses and the words fade out again into a rumbly mess. Morty searches for his name on Rick’s mouth, finds it a few times.

His breath stops again, a lump in his throat, hard and stuck, but he doesn’t panic this time, watches Rick instead. Rick’s fingers pull out of him red and dripping. A warm, wet hand settles around his neck, gentler than before, but exactly as tight. It strokes up and down, altering pressure, squeezing. There’s sweat on Rick’s face, looming above him now. He watches Rick shake his opposite hand off, flecks of blood scatter, then he wipes smears of red from it off onto his pure-white labcoat. Hands still tinted, but not dripping anymore. Rick’s so focused. Morty forgets he’s not breathing and tries with all willpower to not pass out from it, not wanting to miss this.

Rick’s fingers slide into his mouth easy, less forceful than before. He looks at him and Morty nods, opens his mouth further, access. Rick’s fingers taste like blood, copper and salt; it overtakes the strange bitterness his skin had before. The texture is still rough, but slick. Rick is so gentle, the hand on his throat massages upwards, he feels the lump move up with them. Rick’s fingers press at the back of his throat, compliant Morty gags on them as they slide further down, the obstruction makes an attempt to shimmy down only for Rick to tighten his grip on Morty’s throat and trap it.

“Doin’ real good,” Rick’s voice appears from above, Morty’s eyes want nothing but to roll back into his head but he forces them to stay. Don’t pass out. He loves when Rick says that he’s doing good. He loves to hear it, he’d go on one hundred adventures to hear that all of five times. His hand comes up to tug weakly at Rick’s coat. He needs to hear it again.

“Y-you’re doing great, Morty, almost done, this is it, you’re ok.” Morty tries to push out a noise between Rick’s fingers and the creature inside. Rick’s fingers push down into his throat again to force another gag. “Thaaaat’s it, come on, come on M-Morty. Almost done. Rea-real good, you’re great, it’s aaaalmost over.”

There’s a satisfying wet pop, a skittering of tiny legs against his tongue and then everything is out of his mouth before he can register Rick leaving, or that he's breathing again. A shhff noise echoes beside him, so he looks over to see a jar filled with the squirming, fleshy things, bloated red with blood and squirming desperately against each other. Morty thinks, ‘it’s over’ so he goes to sit up, only to have Rick shove a hand into his chest and force him back down.

“Jesus, Morty, stay down, y-you’re still open,” Rick says, looking at the jar, counting the bugs with his eyes. “Those pills really worked, huh?”

Morty smiles up at him.

“They’re all out of you. I-I told you it’d be fine, didn’t I, you gotta trust me Morty, you know those pills aren’t—they’re not for me to drug you with so you’ll be reasonable, Morty, those are mine, s-so next time I say calm down, calm down, ok? Alright? “ Morty’s hand still clings to his labcoat.

“Lets uh, lets sew you up then.”


End file.
